


The Hope That Came Before

by Defira



Series: An Ever Present Shadow [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Amaranthine, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Grey Wardens, Multi Generational Story, Orlais, Rebellion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defira/pseuds/Defira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prelude to a forthcoming tale about the characters Kristoff and Aura from Dragon Age: Awakening. Theirs is obviously a tragic and beautiful love, cut horribly short by Kristoff's death at the hands of the darkspawn in the Blackmarsh, but what of the story that comes before? How did they meet? How did they fall in love? And how did an Orlesian Warden with a Fereldan accent come to know the criminal underworld of Amaranthine so well? How does an Orlesian woman come to own a house in Amaranthine, when her husband is stationed in Orlais?</p>
<p>The inconsistencies in their story deserved to be resolved, and in attempting to do so, the story became so much larger than I had anticipated. This is a prequel of sorts, the story of both their families as the tale wends towards their first meeting, the moment when love is kindled for the first time between two unlikely souls. Our story begins over thirty years before the two of them even meet for the first time, and twenty years before either of them are even born. </p>
<p>To be followed by Kristoff and Aura's tale, A Love Extraordinary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Birth of a Warden

**Author's Note:**

> Kristoff's grandfather and namesake, the great Warden Commander Kristoff of Orlais, was not always a Grey Warden. Nor was he always a great man. Sometimes, when confronted with the simplest of trials, he stumbled.

_**Val Royeaux, Orlais, 8:78 Blessed** _

His mouth tasted like a sewer.

The taste was what woke him eventually- not the nightmares, the awful clawing visions of dark tunnels and blood and death, but the rancid tang of ancient blood and evil coating the inside of his mouth like oil. His head ached, and he tried to swallow; his stomach roiled uncomfortably, and he rolled to his side as his throat constricted. He wretched, tongue burning from what had to have been lyrium, but as foul as the brew was his body would not give it up. It seethed and burned inside of him, and he hunched over, gagging at the pain of it. 

_Maker, was this death?_

“You’ve come around faster than expected.” The voice was female, and blunt. His memory told him that she had a habit of brevity, and that despite her hard tone there was something in her voice that suggested she was impressed. He didn’t know how he knew that, or who she was, and it didn’t seem nearly as important as the fact that his blood seemed determined to leave his body. “Though you hardly seem grateful at the moment.”

His throat worked as if attempting to throw up, but his stomach refused to cooperate. _Blood_ , he remembered, details flooding back to him. He had been handed a goblet, worn and scuffed from centuries of use. The metal had been tarnished on the outside, and stained on the inside of the cup, and the liquid inside…

“Why can’t I throw up?” he groaned, but it wasn’t so much a question. 

“The mages are very careful with their preparations,” she said, and he could hear footsteps as she approached. “It wouldn’t be all that helpful if our recruits were incapable of actually swallowing the Joining potion.”

_The Joining_. He groaned as he rolled onto his back again, staring up at the female figure standing over him. It all came rushing back to him, a violent flood of memories. The years of military training, the bloody battles, the sojourns into the Deep Roads; there were faces and names, family and friends and allies, and he suddenly remembered-

“Nadhiel,” he said, staring up at the elvish woman. She had handed him the goblet.

She raised an eyebrow, a wry look on her face. “That’s Lieutenant Commander Nadhiel,” she said, crossing her arms firmly. “And congratulations on surviving the Joining, Messere Havener.”

A fierce sense of triumph flooded through him with the last of his memories. “I’m a Grey Warden,” he said slowly, a smile spreading over his face and the discomfort in his stomach settling at last.

She offered him a hand up. “You are indeed,” she said, pulling him to his feet. Her eyes carried sorrow, but they also burned with pride. “Welcome, brother.”

Kristoff grinned, and clenched his fist over his heart before bowing towards her. “It’s an honour, sister.”

***

_**Lydes, Orlais, two weeks later** _

It aggravated him no end that his first task as a Warden was to return home, summoned on a manner of great urgency and secrecy by his parents. According to the note, they had hoped to intercept him before he took the Joining ritual, but they were vague on any details beyond that. He had read and reread it a half dozen times since taking to the road, scowling at the wretched thing every time. He was a grown man, nearing thirty- he was not some young pup, to be dragged home at his mother’s whim. 

What’s more, as a Warden his family had no claim to his time anymore. He would not abandon them outright- he loved them, in his own way- but his loyalty was to the Wardens now. He was to serve mankind, not teacakes in his mother’s salon. 

But it was troubling that they would summon him so urgently. The only thing that came to mind to explain the desperation of their note would be if something had happened to Alderic, his younger brother. His new commitment had severed his right to inherit the estate, and had instead passed the mantle of lordship to Alderic- who had been completely satisfied with the arrangement. If his parents sought to prevent his Joining, had something terrible happened to Alderic? Had the fool gone and gotten himself in another duel, and the family was now without an heir?

He squared his jaw, clenching his teeth in frustration as he rode. It did him no good to dwell on _what ifs_ and _maybes_ \- he would learn soon enough why his family had summoned him.

Knowing his luck, it was just another attempt to stop him from fulfilling his destiny as a noble warrior.

He had changed horses this morning, and he made good time on the final stretch towards Lydes; his parents’ estate was on the outskirts of town, a sprawling affair with a private lake and any number of wooded groves that he had played in as a child. He rode up the long and winding drive without noticing them, his gaze fixed forward towards his goal. The ghosts of his childhood could have danced out of the woods to run merrily beside him, and he would never have noticed.

He was not a man to indulge in frivolity.

As the horse thundered up the drive towards the main building, he could see movement by the front doors. There was a carriage being wheeled behind the stables, but he did not get a look at the crest before it vanished from sight. A few of the hands ran forward to take the reins from him as he slowed to a trot in front of the steps; he tossed the leather towards one of the older grooms, barking instructions at the man as he dismounted quickly. 

The massive wooden doors were already swinging inwards as he took the steps two at a time. “Good morning, serah,” came the familiar voice of Raoul, the family steward. ‘Shall I announce-”

“Not now, Raoul,” Kristoff said, tugging his gloves free and slapping them onto the side table in the front hall. The steward turned an unkind eye towards them, but knew better than to raise a complaint. “Where are they?”

“Your mother is taking tea in the eastern salon. I believe your father is with her.”

Kristoff was already moving. “That’ll be all,” he called back over his shoulder.

“Serah, I must insist, there is another-”

“That’ll be all!” He almost had to lean back through the doorway, because the temptation to see the vexed look on the old steward’s face was almost overpowering. He resisted, just, and made his way through the estate to the eastern salon. 

The hallways seemed awkward now, now that he was bound to another life. The tapestries no longer depicted things that held any interest for him- the ancestors and the glories illuminated in loving detail were not his glories, and no longer his family. His family and his lineage were men and women, humans and elves and dwarves, and their glories were the legends of this world. He had shared blood with them, in a brutal pact that meant far more to him than mere bloodlines. 

He was a Warden. That was his life, his family, his blood. This visit today was a mere inconvenience.

He burst into the salon without knocking first and without being announced- he knew it vexed his mother because the first thing out of her mouth was an extremely loud and exasperated sigh. She was seated by the window, looking out over the lake and the morning sun, a platter of half-eaten breakfast pastries set to one side. His father was sitting opposite, the most recent newsprint from Val Royeaux held before him- glancing at the title as he entered, Kristoff could tell it was several days old. 

“I did _not_ raise you to be a savage!” Lady Havener said in frustration, gesturing towards the door. “It does not impede your precious duties to stop and knock at the door like a gentleman _before_ entering!”

“All that time underground addles the brain,” came a voice from the back of the room. Kristoff resisted the urge to grimace as he turned and nodded a terse greeting to his younger brother. Alderic was sprawled over the divan, booted feet up on the delicate fabric as he flicked aimlessly through a questionable looking novel. 

“Good morning Alderic,” he said brusquely, turning back to his parents. “Mother. Father.”

His father scrutinised him for a moment before going back to his paper. “You went ahead with it then.”

Kristoff stiffened as if he’d been struck. “I told you of my intentions, ser,” he said, biting his tongue to stop from saying something more unsympathetic. 

“That you did,” Lord Havener said mildly, his tone distracted as he kept reading. 

It was a powerful insult- the dismissal of who he was and what he’d become, what he had chosen to become, as if he were nothing more than a disappointing child with a poor account from the governess. That his father still refused to acknowledge his decision as anything other than a mild embarrassment made him seethe; impatience gnawed at him, the desire to learn the reason for their summons and leave as quickly as possible. 

His mother cast a critical eye over his apparel. “And you didn’t even stop to change into something more sensible?” she said, her disappointment less cutting than his father’s dismissal. At least, in her disappointment, she acknowledged the path he had chosen for himself.

“This is not a social call, mother,” he said, fighting the desire to frown at her as she frowned at him. “I am a Grey Warden now, and may be called upon at any moment to defend this land from great evil. I do not have the luxury of-”

“Put it to rest, brother,” Alderic called from the divan, licking his finger to turn the page before lifting a brandy glass to his mouth. “We all know how immensely _honourable_ it is for the family to have a Grey Warden among us, and how _exceedingly_ noble you are sacrificing yourself this way, and how _proud_ we should all-”

Kristoff turned to snarl at him, but his mother pre-empted him. “Speaking of honourable,” she interrupted, casting a furious glare at her younger son, “Lady Laurent is here.”

That took him by surprise. “Honoré is here?” he asked, looking back at his mother. “Why?”

“Your little filly was tight lipped on that front,” Alderic said, earning him a hissed “ _Alderic!_ Mind your tongue when you speak of a lady!” from their mother. The reprimand did not wipe the smirk from his face.

It took all of his self-control to not go over and throttle his ass of a brother. “What is Honoré doing here, and why did you summon me home with such urgency? I half expected to find the estate in flames from the way you begged me to come back.”

“Lady Laurent would not say what her reasons for coming were,” his mother said, suddenly uncomfortable. She made a great show of adjusting her skirts, before reaching for her tea once more. “But it was at her urging that we sent the missive in the first place.”

He blinked once, then twice, then a third time. On the surface, the words were fairly simple, but he could not for the life of him process them. “ _Honoré_ asked you to send the message? Maker’s Breath, whatever for?” 

“She was quite recalcitrant on that point, my dear,” his mother said, her tone disapproving. “It is not seemly for a young lady to make demands of her elders in such a fashion, especially if she intends to keep secrets. It is most uncouth.”

Of course his mother would treat it as a slight against her own outstanding character. “So that was her carriage being stored? Where is she now?”

“She is in the conservatory,” Alderic said, his voice sly. “I offered to help make her more comfortable, but she wasn’t very courteous towards my attempts to assist her.”

Meaning Alderic had made some lecherous pass at her again. Kristoff ground his teeth together in frustration- punching his brother, while tempting, was not going to solve any of his problems. He had to remember he represented something greater than himself now, and that his actions reflected on the Wardens. He had to remain calm, and in control.

“Very well then,” he said, directing his comments towards his parents, “I shall adjourn to speak with Honoré and learn the reason for my summons-”

“Oh, so now he minds his manners,” his mother lamented, poking at her husband’s newspaper to try and find a sympathetic audience. “When a woman is involved, he’s all smiles and-”

“Lady Laurent is my friend, mother,” Kristoff said, cutting her off, “and she at least has the decency to accept that a grown man can find his own path in life.”

He did not give his mother a chance to respond, bowing smartly and stalking from the room as quickly as humanly possible without outright sprinting. In the hallway he ran a hand over his face in frustration, his head already aching from the arguments he knew were going to continue throughout the day. Maker’s Breath, it wasn’t like they could disown him any more than he already was- would it be such a bad thing to speak to Honoré, find out the truth behind this little debacle and just leave without having to suffer through another tirade?

There was something greatly unjust about a grown man fleeing from home because he feared having to sit through another of his mother’s lectures.

His footfall was muffled through most of the estate, softened by luxurious carpets and plush rugs; it was a harsh contrast to the stone floors of the barracks he lived in now. And yet, he couldn’t help but smile to himself, because he couldn’t imagine it any other way. He relished the challenges that came with being a Warden, even if he had experienced relatively few of them so far. It was the life he was made for, not some shallow lordling playing at being king on a tiny plot of land. Let his brother have such a life- Alderic excelled at shallow pursuits, after all. 

His steps smacked loudly against stone as he stepped into the conservatory, the little glass walled room that his grandfather had designed to keep exotic plants from warmer climes. It was bordering on unpleasant as he carefully closed the door behind him, careful to leave it open a few inches for the sake of propriety. Just because he was no longer concerned with the petty notions of society did not mean that Honoré had the same blessing. An unwed young woman, however defiant of conventions she normally was, could not run the risk of being publicly alone with an unwed man. 

She was easy enough to spot, wearing an appalling purple and green ensemble that was so lurid it practically glowed. The hat perched atop her coiffure was ridiculously small, and clearly served no purpose other than as some obscure fashion statement only interpretable by other females. She had her back to him, her fingers dancing over the leaves of a lily as purple as her dress. She was wearing, of all things, white lace gloves, but for some reason had taken it upon herself to remove the tips of each finger. She was an eccentric young woman, through and through; for a moment, and only a moment, he allowed himself to stop and smile at the sight of an old and beloved friend. 

“I’d be careful now,” he called, his smile widening when she spun about at his voice, “Father keeps all manner of poisonous weeds under the pretence of an interest in botany.”

“Kristoff!” She hurtled across the space and threw herself at him; laughing, he only just brought his arms up in time to catch her, hauling her into his arms as she threw her own around his neck. “Maker, I’ve _missed_ you! I was going absolutely batty, wondering if you’d make it or not!”

“Your faith in my continued survival is appreciated,” he laughed, doing his best to set her feet back on the ground again. She resisted for a moment, before making a huffing noise and slumping back onto her own two feet, pausing only to plant a kiss firmly on his cheek.

She was a remarkable woman, he mused, and not for the first time; at eight years his junior she was only nineteen, but with the lamentable passing of her parents in a carriage accident several years earlier, she was entirely independent. It was an almost scandalous state of affairs for a young woman, even though she had proved herself entirely capable- most objections were simply of the opinion that she was far too young to be living by herself, and managing her own affairs. She had laughed in the face of such objections, and set out to make herself a unique and delightful individual.

If one were to judge her simply on her wardrobe, she had been immensely successful. 

“Oh, you wretched man, I thought I would have a chance to see you before you left!” she said, swatting at his arm affectionately. “Here I was thinking you were going to die naked and drunk in some secret Warden dungeon ceremony, and I’d never get a chance to say goodbye!”

“I believe we said our goodbyes at least twice,” he said, smiling warmly at her. “Three times if you count that debacle at Lady Gaugnier’s assembly, which I believe is why my mother is so utterly incensed at my becoming a Warden in the first place.”

“I thought she was going to have me thrown out when I showed up last sennight to ask them to send the message,” she said, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Either that or I thought she might faint dead away at the thought of being in the presence of such a brazen heathen.”

“I heard someone call you a disastrous wench.”

“Oooh, I missed that one! I do like that-”

“But I would prefer for us to trade insulting monikers once the reason for my hasty arrival has been revealed,” he said. “Care to divulge why you had me dragged back from the capital tout de suite?”

Her gaze faltered for a fraction of a second, enough to rouse his suspicions immediately. “Of course!” she said brightly. “Why don’t we go and sit, perhaps somewhere not so close to the door-”

“Whatever it is, Honoré, you can tell me. We’ve no need for secrets.”

Her lips twitched, and there was a tightness around her eyes that had not been there a moment earlier. “I would really prefer if we could-”

“Why the need for secrecy, my dear?”

Her teeth clacked together as she scowled at him. “I would really rather avoid the demeaning _my dears_ , if it’s all the same to you.”

That caused him to blink in surprise- he could scarcely think of a time that she’d been annoyed at him. “You are being unnecessarily obtuse,” he countered. “If you have something to tell me, simply tell me.”

“I would rather say it in private!” she retorted, colour rising in her face; it was no longer mischief in her eyes, but anger. 

“We _are_ in private!”

“The door is still open, and your ass of a brother has tried to grope me no less than twice already- I would not put it past him to be lurking even now!”

He threw his hands up in frustration and stomped to the door, slamming the wretched thing closed. The glass panes rattled on all sides, and as he turned back he could have sworn he saw Honoré flinch. That stabbed at him, that someone as dear to him as her- possibly the only person dear to him, if he were to be honest- would find something to be afraid of.

“Honoré,” he began, holding out a conciliatory, “what is-”

“Can we _please just sit down?_ ” she shouted, her hands clenching into fists at her side. She seemed to realise what she was doing, for she crossed her arms rather fiercely and fixed him with a look that actually had him stepping back in alarm. There was such anger and such sorrow and such desperate fear in that look- he did not think he had ever seen her look so vulnerable and yet so ferocious as she did in that moment. She was a wee slip of a thing, barely up to his shoulder, but right then, he was slightly afraid of her. 

He lifted his hand towards her and then dropped it back to his side. “Of course we can sit,” he said cautiously. “If memory serves, there’s a lounge just-”

“It’s over on the left,” she interrupted, not meeting his gaze. “I moved it. Less chance of being overheard.”

He raised his eyebrows at that, but she would not look at him; she kept her chin held high as she led him through the greenery. She reached the seat ahead of him and sat quickly, tucking her hands together in her lap.

She still would not look at him.

Cautiously, he took the space beside her and tried to take her hand. After a moment of resisting, she relented and let him entwine their fingers together. “Please, Honoré,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Tell me what is wrong.”

She laughed once, a sharp, hard sound. It wasn’t delicate or ladylike at all- it was bitter, cold. “I tried to get hold of you before you left,” she said, “and I had word sent to Val Royeaux, to try and stop the Joining. I almost came after you myself, but I knew it was too late.”

He felt cold, a deep sense of foreboding washing over him at her words. “Why would you try to stop my Joining?”

She sighed, long and drawn out and weary; she seemed to age ten years before his eyes. He almost thought she would not speak again. Then she straightened, and turned to look him square in the eye. “I’m pregnant, Kristoff.”

Time thundered to a halt. His breathing stopped. His heart seemed to stagger and freeze. His body turned to stone, cold and frozen and lifeless. Honoré, for her part, did not let her disappointment show; she waited for him, sitting tall and proud and defiant. 

Kristoff swallowed, his mouth as dry as the Sea of Ash. His throat worked as he attempted to speak, each time just as much of a failure as the last. When she squeezed his hand gently, it seemed to break the horrified thrall he was in.

“Are you sure it’s-”

“ _Watch your tongue, Kristoff_ ,” she said softly, dangerously. “Consider your next word carefully.”

He hesitated, the word hanging on his tongue. “… correct?” he finished lamely, not sure what else he could ask that wasn’t the significant other question she had forbidden.

“A woman knows,” she said stiffly. “And a woman is certain that your reaction is not what she had hoped for.”

“I had hoped…” He fought down the immense wave of panic in his belly. “I had thought there were precautions, that we had…”

“Of course there are precautions,” she snapped. “They _failed_.”

He could only stare. The wild, roiling emotions within him dwarfed the moment he had woken from the Joining. There were no words for what he felt. “Honoré, I…” The words choked him, burning his tongue like fire. “I _can’t_.” 

She went deathly still. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “You can’t _what?_ ”

It was panic he felt, wild terror unlike anything he had ever encountered. “You cannot ask this of me, Honoré,” he said, his words stilted.

“I have not asked you anything, as of yet, serah. What could you possibly-”

“Enough, Honoré!” he hissed. “You mock me!”

Her eyes flashed dangerously. “Your anger is unwarranted, Kristoff. There is no reason for a man to be angry when a woman asks him to take responsibility for his child-”

“I am a _Warden_ , Honoré!” he roared. “I am not available to play house with you and some damned whelp!”

“I am _not asking_ you to sit and be some dainty house husband and choose drapery with me!” she snarled, surging up out of the chair and looming over him. Her eyes blazed with a fury unlike any he had ever encountered. “And that damned whelp is _your child!_ ”

“You do not need to remind me of that!”

“ _Well apparently I do!_ ”

He had nothing, nothing he could say in response to that that would not cut their bond irrevocably. He seethed with the wildest anger he had ever felt, such immense frustration bubbling through him at having come so close to his goal only to have it ripped away.

“What would you have me do, Lady Laurent?” he bit off, each word sodden with bitterness.

She straightened, and took a step back. The vulnerability was there, hidden in her eyes despite her strong stance. “I require nothing of you except your name,” she said. 

“Then you can marry Alder-”

“ _I will not marry your fool of a brother!_ ” she snarled, her finger stabbing into his chest. “This is your child, and if you do nothing else for it, you will give it a name!” 

They were both breathing hard, both with clenched fists; her eyes blazed with fire and stubbornness. And as much as he hated this moment, hated the fact that he could feel his freedom and his destiny sliding away from him, he knew that he had to do right by her. She was his best friend, his occasional lover, and now… the mother of his child. 

Maker that was a staggering thought. 

He took a deep breath. “Honoré, I…” He swallowed, his stomach threatening to rebel. “This does not change the fact that I am a Warden. I have taken the Joining. I have no life to offer you or… our child.”

Something finally softened in her expression. “I am not _asking_ you to sacrifice any of that,” she said, her voice trembling only slightly. “I am well aware of what you have committed to, and how important it is to you. But I will not have our child subjected to scorn and ridicule simply because you were not man enough to name yourself as father.”

“Honoré-”

“A name,” she said, and she sounded as if she was begging. But that was impossible, because he did not know a single person stronger than his Honoré. How could she possibly be reduced to begging? “Kristoff, _please_ , that’s all I’m asking. A name for your child. Our child. _Please._ ” 

When the first tear slipped onto her cheek, he knew that he was lost. She did not bow her head, or tremble, or fall to her knees and beg. She stood over him, fists clenched and jaw tight and a single tear on her cheek and he was lost. 

He was on his feet and had his arms around her between one breath and the next. “A name you shall have,” he whispered into her hair. “You shall both have.”

He had forsaken all else in his pursuit to become a Warden. He had nothing else to offer her but his name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warden Kristoff receives news from home

**_Orlais, 8:78 Blessed_ **   
_Dearest Kristoff,_

_Apologies that this note should reach you so late, but as I’ve not yet heard back from my previous two missives, I’m sure you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me for the belated notice. You are a father, my darling. I’m hoping at this point that you have returned from whatever mission the Wardens had you preoccupied with and can see from my attempts to contact you earlier that your son has arrived earlier than anticipated. I know we spoke about you being at hand for his birth, but rest assured your mother was a surprisingly stalwart companion and despite the problems I’ve had the last few months, the birth itself was blessedly straight forward._  
I have named him Gabriel, for my grandfather. At the particularly unsubtle prompting of your mother, he also has your father’s name. He was born two days ago, in the early evening.   
Congratulations, my dear husband. May your journeys in the deep be swift and safe. 

_With fondest regards,  
Honoré_

***

Kristoff held the letter- and three others like it- in steady hands, trying to dredge something from within him that was neither guilt nor exhaustion. It was difficult, to say the least. The date in the top corner of the letter told him Honoré had penned it nearly three months ago. 

_Maker_. He ran a hand wearily over his face, feeling the dust and the grime that seemed to be embedded in his skin. Months of journeying, months of deep chasms and craggy mountains and few chances to bathe in between, and he felt like a piece of the earth itself. He had bled and sweat and fought his way through entire swathes of the Deep Roads, revelling in every hard won inch, celebrating every ancient tunnel they uncovered and cleared. With every giant spider he’d cut down, he’d felt a surge of vicious pride; with every Deepstalker, he’d wanted to shout triumphantly in the echoing chambers. When they cleared the ancient thaigs of rubble and refuse, uncovering secrets and treasures, he’d felt so indispensable, knowing they were recovering things that could help to save the world above in wars to come. And when they’d finally encountered darkspawn, those wretched monsters that people like his parents would blindly insist no longer existed, he’d felt no fear at all- just a calm acceptance that he had chosen the right path. He belonged with the wardens, fending off this darkness, fighting to keep these creatures from overrunning the land.

And so he had fought. He had bled. He had had a few close calls with death, and he was more exhausted than he knew a body could rightly feel and still stay conscious. His body was a lattice of scars, most still angry and red and achingly tender to the touch. He felt like he’d aged years instead of weeks; he could easily have slept for days right now. But there’d been correspondence waiting for him- multiple items in fact, which earned him a great deal of ribbing from Harken and Erin, a loud-mouthed dwarf and his scrawny Marcher sidekick. _Nagging wife? How unfortunate, no wonder he chose the darkspawn over a life at home_. Their teasing was good natured, but relentless, and he had little patience for their humour on a good day.

This wasn’t particularly a good day. 

He was a father. He stared at the letter, reading each line again slowly, absorbing the message and letting it settle within him. He was a _father_. It was an unusual feeling- this was not a fate he had ever sought for himself. A wife and now a child waiting for him at home, a domestic setting that should have been comforting at the very least. Instead he felt… unsettled. Perhaps not even that. Mostly he just felt uncomfortable that he felt _nothing_ when he thought of Honoré and Gabriel. Gabriel Havener, his son, nearly three months old now. Surely that should have invoked a sense of pride or happiness or accomplishment or _something_.

Instead he felt emptiness, and a vague unease at this new responsibility, a responsibility he had never thought to find himself burdened with. Funny how the responsibilities that came with his role as a warden seemed inconsequential in comparison; those duties were easy to understand. Yet how on earth was he supposed to be a father to this child he had never desired in the first place?

“Problem, warden?” He looked up to see Lieutenant-Commander Nadhiel in the doorway, her hair damp and her skin pink from scrubbing. She tossed something at him, and he put his hands up in time to catch a rough towel. “Most make a beeline for the bathhouse the moment they drop their gear- you’ve been sitting there for a good twenty minutes now staring at your hands. Which you should probably clean as well, because I can smell you from here, but you have my curiosity piqued.”

He grimaced and carefully folded the letters, tucking them inside his jerkin and out of sight. “It’s nothing, ser,” he said, taking the towel and standing. Nadhiel watched him, leaning casually against the doorframe. She deliberately did not move out of the way when he reached her, instead crossing her arms when he sighed wearily at her. 

“Your wife’s past due, by my count,” she said, her tattoos- _vallaslin_ , he corrected himself mentally, she had a tendency to bloody those who forgot the distinction- twitching as she smirked at him. “Yet your expression doesn’t make me think I should be calling for a round of drinks.”

His jaw worked as he fought not to snap at her. She might have been half his size, but she was his commanding officer. And if there was one thing his relationship with Honoré had taught him, it was to never underestimate a woman regardless of her size or apparent frailty. Nadhiel had not made it to the rank of senior Warden without spilling a lot of blood- some of it even hers. 

“Well?” she prompted.

“I’ve a son,” he said stiffly. “He should be about eleven weeks old.”

She stared at him, her expression unreadable. “And?” she prompted again. “I assume he has a name?”

“His mother has named him Gabriel,” he said. 

When he didn’t elaborate further, she sighed and scratched at her shoulder- there was an old wound there, and it pained her sometimes. “You’ve got a month. Don’t let me catch you back here before that month is over.”

He made a sound of protest. “I don’t want-” he began.

“That was not a suggestion, warden,” she said sharply. “You have a family, and you have a responsibility to them. The Commander will understand. Get washed up and get yourself onto a horse.”

“I have a _responsibility_ to the Wardens,” he said irritably. 

Her eyes flashed angrily and that was all the warning he had before his feet were out from under him. He let out a pained oomph as he hit the floor, and then Nadhiel was looming over him, arms crossed and expression set like stone. “Let me say it in a language you’re more familiar with,” she said coldly. “Consider yourself suspended from duties, warden. You may return to your post in a month’s time, but for now you have an hour to get yourself off the base. If you are not out of the barracks in an hour, you will be suspended indefinitely. Do I make myself clear?”

His nostrils flared as he struggled to reign in his temper. “Crystal, ser,” he said.

Nadhiel stared down at him for a moment longer before nodding briskly. “I’ll leave you to make the arrangements then,” she said, stepping back and offering him her hand. After a second’s hesitation he took it, and she helped him to his feet. She turned to leave, but looked back over her shoulder at him. “Oh, and Kristoff?”

“Yes, ser?”

She cracked a grin at him, smiling far more smugly than he liked. “ _Congratulations,_ ” she said, before disappearing from view.

***

**_Lydes, Orlais, one week later_ **

He had taken his time to get home to his parent’s estate, and the lack of emotion he felt towards the birth of his son had grown, as had the vague sense of panic at the prospect of seeing his new family and having to admit to his disinterest. He cared deeply for Honoré, without question; he had married her with only the slightest hesitation, and if he had to have himself connected to one woman for the remainder of his days, he was at least grateful that it was her. She was a dear friend, a skilled lover, and an exemplary woman. 

But she would see right through him in an instant. She had a gift for it- she would know the disquiet in his heart just from looking at him. Would she be angry? 

_Maker, don’t let her be angry._

The manor house slowly came into view as he came around the curve of the road, and he sighed, rubbing wearily at his face. Maybe it wasn’t too late to turn around and head to town instead- it was only a five minute ride back to the main road. He could get a meal at the tavern, maybe even get a room and a bath…

… and be rudely interrupted by his mother who would know he was in town within the hour and come marching down to find him. No doubt making a scene in the process as she berated him and dragged him home by the ear, as if he were a brat of seven and not a man of seven and twenty. He sighed again, and the piebald mare he rode snorted as if in sympathy. She began to veer towards the greenery by the side of the road, as if assuming his mood meant they were of an accord to stop; clucking his tongue in disapproval he flicked the reins at her and got her straight again. 

His gaze returned to the house, his mouth set in a grim line as it drew closer. He didn’t know what he was expecting to see- it wasn’t as if the birth of his son would have caused any physical changes to the architecture of the manor itself. There it was: the stately old stone and marble peeking out from between the trees. It was still early morning, a few hours before noon, and there wasn’t any movement in the yard. 

“Ho there, stranger,” came a familiar voice, and Kristoff turned to see his brother riding up from the opposite direction of the house. He pulled his mount to a stop and waited for Alderic to draw closer, holding his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. “Maker preserve us, you look like you’ve aged a decade already.”

“It’s good to see you too, brother,” Kristoff said dryly, glancing about to see if Alderic was alone. No one else emerged from the tree line. “By what stroke of luck do I have you here to greet me in such a fashion?”

Alderic snorted as if amused, and his horse mimicked the noise, stamping irritably. Kristoff glanced at the beast, noting that the stallion was new to the stables- it certainly hadn’t been around when he had last been home. It seemed flighty and ill-tempered, so he made sure to keep a tight hold on the reins of his own horse, in case she got spooked. “No luck about it, old man, it’s your damn whelp. I’m lucky to get a full night’s sleep these days what with all the screaming and other nonsense.”

Kristoff felt a niggle of annoyance at his brother. “The house is quite large, Alderic,” he said. “You can go sleep at the other end of the house if it’s that much of a bother.”

His brother smirked, but there was no laughter in his eyes. “I was here first,” he said, “and I’ll be damned if I let your precious brat send me scurrying with my tail between my legs.” His horse snorted again and pulled hard against the reins; Alderic slapped him with a crop. “And yet I find myself doing exactly that.” He laughed heartily, as if he found himself highly amusing.

Not in the mood for Alderic’s quicksilver moods, Kristoff grit his teeth and looked back towards the manor. “What are you doing out here, Alderic?”

“Hunting, old man,” Alderic replied, although what he thought he was hunting without bow or spear, he didn’t say. “It’s not like I was sleeping anyway. But I daresay I can tear myself away to escort you home- in case you’ve forgotten the way.”

His plans for a quiet entrance ruined, Kristoff sighed. “Why not,” he said, nudging his horse forward.

They rode into the yard with a great deal more commotion than he would have liked, Alderic calling to the hands as they approached. They were met by a small crowd, with his appearance eliciting gasps and shouts of surprise. He saw more than one of the servants head straight for the house- undoubtedly to warn his parents. _Or wife_ , he reminded himself. That was still a new variable to consider. Someone held the reins for him as he dismounted, and his horse was led away almost instantly; he had almost forgotten what it was like, this lifestyle. He almost lost his balance it happened so quickly.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder and he staggered slightly from the weight of it. Alderic stood behind him, grinning broadly- although again, it did not quite reach his eyes. “Congratulations, brother,” he said, offering him his hand. Momentarily confused, Kristoff took his hand after a second of hesitation. Alderic pulled him into a hug and slapped him heartily on the back. “A son! You sly dog, well done you! If you hadn’t made yourself ineligible to inherit, this would be a fine day indeed!”

Kristoff patted Alderic on the back and firmly disengaged. “My son is still my son, regardless of inheritance,” he pointed out. “And I suppose I should actually… meet him.”

“My boy!” Both men winced at the shrill cry that came from the manor, and they turned to see Lady Havener braced in the doorway, her hair in slight disarray and a handkerchief clutched to her chest. Kristoff could only stare- he had never seen his mother with even the hint of a hair out of place. She was always fastidious about the straightness of her seams and the length of her hems and the colour of her rouge. To see her so dishevelled was… alarming. “Maker have mercy, you’re _alive!_ ”

“Mother took it quite badly when you did not write weekly,” Alderic muttered in an aside. Kristoff could almost hear him roll his eyes. “She was inconsolable some days- convinced you were lying dead in a tunnel somewhere.”

She flung herself out of the door and towards him; Kristoff only got his arms up at the last moment to catch her as she latched onto him fiercely. “Kristoff! You frighten your mother so poorly, never writing, never checking to see how we are, never letting us know you are safe, and then to ride up like this! Like this! When we have not had time to prepare or-”

“What is there to prepare, mother?” he asked, doing his best not to laugh while trying to pry her off him. This was more emotional than he had seen her in quite some time. “This is my home; I do not need any sort of welcome parade.”

“No, no, no!” She pulled away, trying to fix the state of her hair. “The house is a mess, and the sheets need to be changed and the rooms need to be aired, and gracious me we’ll have to have your clothes pressed and ready to wear, and I’ll see if someone can bring some water up to your room and I think they’ve cleared the breakfast things away-”

Kristoff raised an eyebrow. “Already?” he said, glancing to check the height of the sun. “Alderic is hardly ever out of bed at this hour, surely they’ve not changed the routine so drastically.”

“Oh you poor, misguided fool,” Alderic chuckled, tugging off his riding gloves as he headed into the house. 

His mother attempted to wipe something from his chin and he swatted her hand away irritably. “With Gabriel, things are quite different around here,” she said, “and that has meant quite a few changes. Earlier breakfasts are probably one of the more noticeable.” And then her eyes lit up. “Oh, but my dear, _your son!_ You need to see your son!”

She grasped him by the arm and all but dragged him towards the door. “Mother, I’m fine, I’d be happy just to get some food and a change of clothes,” he said, but she was deaf to his protests.

“Honoré is still abed, Maker bless her,” she said as she led him into the front hall, “but the wet-nurse and I have been up with Gabriel for a few hours, the poor lad has a touch of the colic, and Honoré is exhausted. Not that I blame her, he’s such a needy child, and she is still worn out from-”

“ _Mother_ ,” he said firmly, trying vainly to interrupt her. 

“But I’m certain she won’t mind being woken for your sake, although I must stress darling that you not press for your marital rights, she’s still recovering from the birth and there are some things a husband must respect and-”

“ _Mother!_ ” 

She made a scoffing noise as she shooed him up the stairs. “A mother has certain duties, my dear, and you’ve hardly been present to learn the responsibilities of marriage on your own terms,” she said. “Besides, I’m a woman, and there are some things that perhaps common knowledge for us and not quite so common for you menfolk. Honoré does not deserve to wake to you groping beneath the blankets-”

“Oh Maker’s Breath this cannot be happening,” he said to no one in particular. “I refuse to believe this conversation is taking place.”

“Bah! How can the words of a grumpy old woman frighten you when you spend your time chasing monsters in the dark?” They’d reached the upstairs landing, and she ushered him not to his own bedroom but to the room beside it. 

The first thing he noticed was the smell. It was… unfamiliar. It didn’t quite smell like a sick room, but it was the closest thing that came to mind. It smelled of freshly cleaned sheets, and medicinal herbs, and something else. And when he saw the elf woman seated by the window holding the small bundle to her chest, he realised what the smell was.

“Is he doing better?” his mother asked, rushing straight past him and to the woman’s side. He didn’t recognise her at all, but he assumed she must be the wet-nurse his mother had mentioned. “Kristoff, darling, come closer. This is Danyala, and this… is your son.”

The tiny bundle that Danyala held was moving, and he saw the irrationally small hand gripping tight to the neckline of her gown. She smiled nervously at him, all the while patting the child’s back. “He’s calm now, messere,” she said softly. “You’re welcome to hold him, if it pleases you.”

There was dark hair peeking out from the blanket, and he saw the little fingers move. _His son_. Gabriel.

“I’d rather not bother him,” he began, but his mother made a tutting noise.

“Nonsense,” she said, bending down and taking the infant from the maid. There was more movement, and the blanket slipped, and there was suddenly a lot more hair visible and- Kristoff was quite certain the floor was made of smoke, because it definitely felt like he did not have a solid stance. His mother expertly hefted the child, tucking the blanket with one hand while cradling him gently with the other. He was small, much smaller than he was expecting.

Although really he hadn’t had a lot of expectations.

“Hold your arms out,” she said, cooing softly to the bundle in her arms. “No, not like that, I’m not passing you an armful of linen, this is your child we’re talking about.”

“I’m not exactly familiar with this,” he said caustically, trying to hold his arms in a fashion that would be acceptable. “Like this?”

“That will do,” she said; he could have sworn she rolled her eyes. He didn’t think he had ever seen his mother roll her eyes in her life. “Kristoff, this is your son. Gabe, sweetie, this is your papa.” And then she put the bundle in his outstretched arms, and quickly showed him how to adjust his grip, where to place his hands to support the head; then, suddenly he was alone, holding his son by himself.

He was small. And fragile- Kristoff felt an acute discomfort knowing just how easily he could injure the boy without meaning to. The mop of dark hair on the top of his head was familiar, although the blue eyes staring back at him were not. “His eyes-”

“All babies have blue eyes when they are born, dear one,” his mother said patiently. “They’ll settle into a more familiar colour sometime in the next few months.”

“Oh.”

“Is that all you have to say? A comment on his eye colour?”

He swallowed uncomfortably. “He seems to have all the necessary parts,” he said weakly, searching for something to say. “Nose, mouth, ears-”

“Oh, Maker’s Breath, boy, you’re not holding a handful of vipers, don’t look so panicked.”

Kristoff cleared his throat and made more of an effort to look more at ease. “He, uh, seems like a very fine child indeed.”

Gabriel promptly spat up white goo over the front of the blanket.

“Oh, mercy!” Danyala all but snatched the babe away from him; he hadn’t even realised she’d been hovering that closely. “Apologies, messere, a thousand apologies! I was trying to burp him when you arrived and I thought he had settled, I really did, I didn’t think he would-”

“It’s fine,” Kristoff said awkwardly, thankful at least to have the responsibility of his son out of his hands for the moment. “He did not get anything on me, so-”

“And if he had, it would not have been a problem,” his mother said firmly. She helped Danyala to sit and reached across her to wipe Gabriel’s mouth. “You’re a grown man, you can handle a wee bit of sick on your hand.”

“I never said I couldn’t-”

“I imagine you spend your time buried in all kinds of filth when you run around in those old dwarf tunnels,” she said, straightening with a fierce expression on her face that he well recognised to mean trouble. “After all, it’s not like you find the time to write at all, so there must be something keeping your interest in the meantime.”

_Oh Maker…_ “Mother, can this please wait until after I’ve had a bath?”

She waved her hand absently at him. “Yes, yes, it’s not like I’m going to gain any ground regardless,” she said. “You’re as stubborn as your grandfather and mulish to boot. Go to your room and I’ll make sure the water is on to heat.”

“Are you sending me to my room, mother?”

For the first time, a hint of a smile reached her face. “Now why would a mother send her grown, married son to his room?” she asked, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek as she passed. “But it is good to have you home, my boy.”

She left, leaving him alone with Danyala, who was studiously staring at the far wall and cooing softly to Gabriel, very deliberately paying no attention to the father whatsoever. He wanted to sigh in frustration but knew better than to show such a moment of weakness in front of the help; especially in front of an elf who undoubtedly had the ear of both his mother and his wife. He thought perhaps that he should thank her, but what was he to say? _Thank you for feeding my son, and for all the additional care you provide?_ That seemed entirely too personal for a woman he had just met, so instead he nodded briefly to her- of course she didn’t see it, since she was nervously staring away from him- and made his way to the door.

Once in the dubious safety of the hallway, he allowed himself to exhale, sucking in a much needed lungful of air that was decidedly less baby flavoured than the air in the nursery. There was the possibility that he would be seen as he slumped against the wall beside the door and ran his hands over his face, but he was willing to risk it. 

“Maker save me from haranguing mothers,” he muttered, before pushing off the wall and turning to the next door along. 

_His_ bedroom. Or it had been, once upon a time. 

The room was still rather dim, the curtains still drawn tightly against the glare of the sun. It was familiar and yet not- there were no huge differences, no architectural changes, the state of the room relatively recognizable, but… He breathed deeply. The smell was wrong, softer and floral, and the scent of baby was quite strong as well. The room was cluttered, with an extra divan pushed up against the northern window, a smaller writing bureau wedged beside his own desk. The styles clashed horribly.

There were more changes, more immediate issues- clothes left on the back of one of the chairs, papers piled on the smaller desk. His bookshelf had been thoroughly ransacked, the carefully alphabetised volumes lying on their sides, or leaning against one another, with a number of volumes missing altogether. 

And the bed was a mess, sheets tangled, one of the pillows on the floor near the foot of the frame. In the centre was a small lump, and with a rueful smile and a niggle of apprehension he walked to the edge of the bed and looked down. 

Honoré stirred in her sleep, apparently roused slightly by his entrance. “Not now, Odile,” she mumbled, tugging the woollen blanket higher. 

He smiled at his mother’s name on her lips. Clearly the two of them had grown remarkably closer in these last few months. “A shame,” he said, enjoying the way her eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice. “And here I was thinking you were desperate to have me home.”

“Kristoff?” she whispered, lurching upright and staring up at him groggily. The blanket pooled around her waist, and her night gown was unlaced enough that he was able to catch a pleasing eyeful of bosom. She hardly batted an eyelid, pitching forward and grabbing him around the waist. The motion caught him off guard, and he staggered backwards; she overbalanced him, and the two of them went slithering to the floor, a tangle of limbs and blankets. 

He let out an _oomph_ of discomfort as her shoulder dug into his ribs, but she didn’t give him a chance to recover.

“You bastard!” She recovered quickly, scrambling to her knees and punching him firmly on the shoulder. “I was beginning to think you were dead! I thought I was a widow!”

“Mercy!” He held his hands up in entreaty. “There aren’t a lot of opportunities to send mail from the bowels of the earth, my dear.”

“You missed my _birthday!_ ” She wiped the sleep from her eyes, pushing her tousled hair out of her face. “I was fat and miserable and I couldn’t drink to cheer myself up and I had to spend the day with your wretched brother and-”

“I’m sorry?” he attempted.

She closed her eyes and the fight seemed to go out of her. “Maker, Kristoff, I’ve really missed you these last few months.” She used the edge of the bed to struggle to her feet, and then held out her hand to help him up. “It’s been really hard without you to lean on.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “The indomitable Lady Laurent, confessing to defeat?” He kept her hand in his, marvelling anew at the softness of her skin. “Surely the sun rose from the wrong horizon this morning?”

She smirked at him, and he noticed now how tired she looked. The dark circles under her eyes, the small lines that stayed for a moment too long after she stopped smiling. Clearly it had been a difficult few months for both of them, regardless of their different circumstances. “Maker, I’ve missed you, Kristoff.”

He leant in to kiss her, and she tried to wave him off. “Andraste’s flaming ass, I have the worst morning breath; why would you-”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he murmured as he pulled her closer. This, at least, was familiar even if fatherhood was not.


End file.
